


One Day in Morocco

by el_spirito



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Basically, Building Collapse, Claustrophobia, Gen, also i love waverly, my favorite brot3, unpleasant injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8901799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_spirito/pseuds/el_spirito
Summary: A fulfillment of the following prompt: One where they're in a building that collapses for nefarious reasons and Napoleon is injured and Illya, it turns out, is severely claustrophobic, so Napoleon has to simultaneously try and keep the giant Russian calm and not die.Featuring trapped boys, determined Gaby, and Waverly being great.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221Browncoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Browncoat/gifts).



Illya opens his eyes -- at least, he thinks he does. It’s so dark that for a moment he can’t actually tell, and that sends him into a panic that is only compounded when he realizes he can’t move, either. His breathing kicks up and he can feel his heart rate increase, pounding in his ears until it’s all he can hear. His head is pounding, aching with a sharpness he hasn’t experienced before.

The thought occurs to him that maybe he’s dead and gone to that hell the Christians speak of so often. He ponders that for a minute, as his breathing quickens and his heart thuds-thuds-thuds and his eyes don’t see, and thinks that if he were stuck here forever it wouldn’t be anything less than he deserves. Oleg would certainly think so. Oleg hasn’t said anything, not yet, but every time they meet he glares, looks at him sideways, and Illya knows what that means -- a shiv in the kidney or the gut when he least expects it, or poison if he’s really unlucky, the radioactive kind that melts a man from the inside out. 

Illya lets out a laugh -- really more just a huff of air wrenched painfully from overtaxed lungs -- at the thought of Oleg’s face when he realizes he won’t be able to kill Illya himself. Bastard. The old man didn’t deserve that satisfaction anyway. Ilya laughs again and flexes his fingers and his toes, wiggles as much as he can in the stifling whatever that’s pinning him down. It’s a crueler punishment because there is just enough room around him that he thinks maybe if he just strains a little more he’ll break free. 

Illya laughs until he cries.

xxxx

 

Contrary to popular belief -- and, if he’s being honest, to what Napoleon had secretly hoped for -- spy work involves a lot more sitting and waiting than it does action hero moments. And while Solo weasels his way out of the more boring aspects of the job as often as he can, sometimes Waverly puts his foot down or there simply isn’t anyone else and he ends up on paperwork, or even worse, stakeouts.

Stakeouts with Illya provide at least some entertainment value simply because the Russian is so focused on his job that even the slightest jab can set him off on his finest huffs and eye-rolls. Napoleon, of course, has practically made an art out of it, taking careful mental notes so that he knows which provocations are most effective and employing them at strategic moments. 

In this particular instance, they’ve been assigned to watch an Italian national with possible ties to the Vinciguerras, who looks to be doing underhanded business in Morocco. So here they are, holed up in a crumbling apartment in Rabat across the way from a brothel frequented by Sergio Ricci and his weapons dealer friends, and Napoleon is fairly certain he’s dying.

“I believe that this stakeout is going to kill me,” he announces at the start of day two. Napoleon has had a stuffed up nose for three weeks now, and a cough that settled into his chest instead of getting better, and he can scarcely breathe between the mucus plugging his nose and tickling at the back of his throat. His coughing has been increasing in frequency as well. Still, Illya doesn’t even look up from his binoculars, just huffs under his breath. Solo retaliates by plopping into the chair next to him and loudly blowing his nose. 

Illya looks up at that, narrows his eyes as he studies him, then allows, “You do look a little like shit.”

Napoleon grins at that, because he still takes a sort of pride anytime the Russian swears in English, then sneezes three times and leans his forehead against the table with a groan. Another huff from behind him before Kuryakin hands him the binoculars and stalks away, leaving Solo to prop his elbows up on the table and watch with only mild interest at the comings and goings across the street. Behind him, he hears clanging in the tiny kitchen they have, and a few minutes later the whistle of a tea kettle.

“Here.” Illya thrusts a mug of warm tea into his hands, which Solo takes gratefully. Early mornings in Morocco are much colder than one might expect, and the tea does a good bit to warm him up. 

“Thanks,” Solo says. Illya just nods, and props his feet up on the table next to Napoleon, tipping his chair back so that he’s stretched out, hands clasped behind his head. “Comfortable?” Solo says. 

“Very,” Illya answers.

Two minutes later the earthquake starts. Napoleon doesn’t have the luxury of getting knocked unconscious. No, he gets to experience the entire thing from start to finish -- from first tiny little tremor to sudden terrifying shaking, to a sudden terrifying roar, to the realization that the building they were in had collapsed on them. 

As if his day hadn’t already been shitty enough.

It takes a few minutes --could be longer, actually, he isn’t really sure -- before things settle down, before he stops coughing from the dust and before his ears stop ringing. His right ear hurts terribly, and something wet is trickling from it; hopefully it’s blood and not cerebral fluid. 

“Getting morbid, Solo,” Napoleon says, and it has a strange echo-ey quality that means it’s probably a blown eardrum and not something worse. Not that that isn’t bad enough. There’s something above his head which is blocking debris from falling onto it, for which he is immensely grateful, but there is something -- a slab of concrete, perhaps -- pinning his legs down and severely impeding any movement he might try to make. 

A distant noise registers suddenly, and Solo tries in vain to turn his head towards the sound. After a few seconds of intense listening he realizes that he is hearing Russian, a desperate sort of chant that sounds half like a prayer and half like a curse. The words are slippery and slurred. Illya. And probably with a head wound from the sounds of it. 

“Illya?” he shouts, as loudly as he can. It’s not very loud at all and sends him into a coughing fit, but he is determined, and so he takes as deep a breath as he can manage and shouts again.

xxxx

Illya doesn’t know how long he’s been laying in the dark -- ages, probably, and his head is killing him -- when he hears something. It stops his racing thoughts in their tracks and for a moment he blinks, and breathes, and then he hears it again. 

“Illya? Kuryakin? Damn it, talk to me!” 

He licks his lips, not that there’s any moisture to be found even in his mouth anymore, and croaks out, “hello?”

“Thank God! Are you okay?” 

He almost laughs at the breathless question. Probably not okay. 

“Am fine,” he says, then, “Who are you?”

There’s a pause from the other person. “It’s Solo. Napoleon.”

Oh. Right. “Cowboy?” 

There’s a low chuckle from Napoleon followed by a slight hiss of pain; Illya frowns. “Are you okay?” 

“Just peachy.” 

He doesn’t sound peachy. Illya probably doesn’t either. “At least we are alive,” he says finally. 

“There is that,” Solo replies. 

“Do you think -- I mean will they --” 

“They’ll come for us,” Solo says, his voice firm. “They know we’re here, and Jackson and Wilmington are just up in Portugal this week. They could be down within the hour if they’re really motivated.” 

“I cannot move,” Illya says finally, voice low. “Head hurts.”

“What was that? Think I might have busted an eardrum,” Solo says. He coughs when he finishes saying it, and Illya remembers suddenly that the other man had already been ill. Shit. 

“I cannot move,” Illya repeats, louder, and saying it aloud simultaneously makes it more real and therefore more terrifying, but also less lonely. He is not alone. 

Solo grunts a bit and says, “I can’t really either. There’s a little wiggle room, but not much. Maybe though --” 

A warm something comes in contact with Illya’s left hand and he realizes immediately that it’s Solo’s hand; in a move that would have embarrassed him only hours before, he clasps onto it and holds it tight. 

“You okay?” Napoleon asks. He always did like to ask stupid questions. 

“What you think?” Illya shoots back. “I am trapped here and is dark, and space is very small, and is chance no one will come in time, and oxygen is limited, and I have only you for company.”

There is a pause from the other man, likely so that Napoleon can come up with a good comeback. Illya is somewhat surprised when instead, he is asked a question. 

“Are you claustrophobic?” 

“What is this claustrophobic?” 

“Afraid of small spaces,” Solo explains. It is unlike him to explain something; his sincerity is unsettling. 

“No, am not afraid,” Illya snaps. “Just do not like them.” 

“Ah,” Napoleon says. Illya glares at him, though the other man cannot see it of course. 

“What you mean, ‘ah?’” Kuryakin demands. 

Solo apparently doesn’t feel like he needs to answer that. “I’m terrified of snakes,” he says instead. 

Illya knows what he is doing. “I know what you are doing. I am not afraid.” 

Solo ignores him, the bastard. “I got bit by a rattler when I was, oh, six I think. Might’ve been seven, it was right around my birthday. Anyway, been scared of them ever since.”

“How did it happen?” Illya asks, intrigued in spite of himself. Of all the dangers in Russia, snakes are not high on the list. 

“I was playing catch with my dad and the ball rolled under the house. I crawled under, but it was dark and I couldn’t check. Stupid. It got my hand when I was reaching out.” 

Illya winces. “You got antivenom?” 

“Yeah, my parents took my to the hospital and I got the antivenom, but it was terrible. I had to stay for three days. Anyway, since then I’ve been scared of them. The guys in the army thought it was hilarious, always gave me a hard time about it. You can bet I made damn sure Sanders never found out.”

Illya is quiet for a moment. “I had to hide in wardrobe, when my father was taken away. It was long time, maybe few hours, and I heard them beating him, and my mother screaming. Later, I had to hide in same wardrobe when my mother was -- when she was working. It was so small, and I try to tell mother that I do not like it, not the darkness or the smell, or how I could hear my own breathing so loud, but she does not stop. And I grow to hate the small, and the darkness. I have overcome it, sometimes, like to develop film, but that is when I am in control. This -- this, I do not like.” 

It’s Napoleon’s turn to go quiet, and it is not lost on Illya that one of the most sincere conversations they’ve ever had is when they cannot see each other. Perhaps that is why the words can come easier than they normally do. 

“‘M sorry about what I said. That time in the cafe. About your mother.” 

“It was long time ago,” Illya says immediately, surprised that Solo would be thinking about that now. “You were sizing me up. I did same to you. Is no problem now.” 

“Yeah,” Napoleon says. His voice has taken on a dreamy quality. “But I still wish I hadn’t said it.” 

“Cowboy?” Illya says, concern spiking at the other man’s tone. “You still with me?” 

“Yeah,” Napoleon says again, coughing weakly. “Leg’s gone numb. Doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

“Your leg?” Illya says, cursing himself for not asking the other man for more details about his condition. 

“‘S okay now,” Solo says. “Doesn’t hurt.”  
“You need to stay awake,” Illya says, trying not to let his desperation show through. “Gaby will kill me if you die.” 

“Mm,” Solo says. 

“I -- I need you,” Illya admits finally, squeezing Napoleon’s hand. “Don’t leave me alone down here.” He feels selfish and stupid and so, so scared, but if Napoleon dies while he’s trapped and unable to do anything --

“Hey,” Solo says. “‘M still here. Just tired. We’ll be okay, huh? Gaby won’t let anything happen. She’s prob’ly bossing Waverly around right now.” 

“Yes,” Illya says. “Of course.”

He can almost pretend he believes it.

xxxx

Time passes slowly; they talk on and off, but both pass in and out of consciousness. Napoleon is worried about Illya’s head injury, but his inability to help is frustrating. Not to mention his legs are numb and his ear hurts and his chest is sore from coughing. All around not his finest moment. Nor Illya’s. He’s gradually making less and less sense, and he’s spoken to Gaby a few times as though she’s there. If they don’t get out soon, Solo is losing hope that they will at all. 

There’s a sudden shower of dust and a loud creaking that sends Napoleon’s heart to his boots and he thinks aftershock, that’s it, we’re done -- and then there’s a beam of light that gets wider and wider until a head pops up in it and he squints as the person chatters in French. 

“Hey,” he says, squeezing Illya’s hand. “Hey, they’re coming.” 

Illya mutters something in Russian too low for Napoleon to hear, but they’re both still here. 

xxxx

Gaby is there when they find her boys. She and Waverly, along with UNCLE’s top field doctor and three medics, had flown down to Rabat as soon as they got word of the earthquake, and she’s been helping remove rubble ever since. It’s been long and tiresome work, and two bodies have been found so far. Hope has been slipping away. 

She’s just pausing to take a drink of water when one of the local boys, Assad, comes picking his way toward them as quickly as he can, shouting in rapid-fire French. Waverly answers immediately and gestures at her and the others to follow him. 

They’re alive, both of them, though they look terrible. Much of the rubble has been cleared away, revealing Illya, blood covering one side of his face and the dust-stained cement beneath him, but with what appears to be a tabletop protecting him from being crushed entirely. Napoleon is not far from him, with a large slab of cement on top of his legs, and blood running from one ear and his nose. 

“What are we waiting for?” Gaby demands. “Let’s get them out!” 

“Hang on,” O’Reilly says, crouching down to get a better look. “I’m worried about crush syndrome with Solo, and we’ll need to be careful of Kuryakin’s neck. We need to do this carefully.” 

“Fine,” Gaby says, conceding to the other woman’s expertise. “So what do we do?” 

“We need to get Kuryakin on a backboard and strap his head down. We need to keep him still. We need to give Solo fluids, lots of them, before we try to remove that concrete. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gaby says. “I’ll go to Illya first. He might panic if he has to be strapped down.” 

She tiptoes through the rubble until she makes it to Illya’s side, where one of the medics, Hagerty, is talking in low tones to the injured man as he feels carefully around his neck. Illya is starting to get a bit restless, frowning and twitching slightly.

“Hey,” she says, slipping her hand into Illya’s. “It’s okay. We’ve got you.” 

“Gaby?” Illya whispers, frown deepening. 

“Yes,” she says, stroking a hand down his face. “I’m here.” 

“It was dark,” he says, “and close. If not for Cowboy -- is he okay? Solo?” 

Illya tries to sit up, sending Hagerty scrambling to hold his head, and Gaby pushes him back down gently. 

“Easy,” she says. “We’re helping him too.” She is grateful for the cement and people between them that mostly blocks Illya’s view of the American, because Solo looks bad. He’s losing color and is fading in and out of consciousness. O’Reilly is working quickly to start IVs in both arms and his neck. 

“I’m just going to strap you down now,” Hagerty says, “and then we’ll get you out of here. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Illya says, gripping her hand tighter as straps are tightened across his forehead. A group of four men lift him together, carrying him carefully across the remains of their building and to a flat patch that has been designated the waiting area for the wounded. 

“We’ve got a chopper on the way,” Waverly says to her. “We’ll fly them straight to Casablanca and get them taken care of.”

“Okay,” Gaby says, nodding desperately. Illya looks half-dead already, and Solo… “I’m going to go help with Napoleon.” 

“I’ll stay with him,” Waverly says, indicating Illya. “Go on.” 

O’Reilly looks up when she arrives, concern written all over her freckled face. Napoleon’s got cardiac leads attached to his chest and a blood pressure cuff around his arm, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. O’Reilly thrusts an IV bag at her as soon as Gaby draws close. “Squeeze that. His BP is low and I’m worried about kidney failure or cardiac arrest if we take this off before we get more fluids in him. He’s losing blood from somewhere, probably one of his legs, so we’re going to have to move quickly once we get it off.” 

“Fuck,” Gaby whispers. Solo had taught her that one, and he always seemed pleased when she used it, especially the time she used it in Waverly’s company. She’d ignored him for a week after that.

“Talk to him, hmm? This is probably pretty scary for him.” 

“Of course,” Gaby says, kneeling down by Solo’s head and squeezing the bag of saline for all she’s worth. “Hey Napoleon,” she says. 

“Hey,” he whispers without opening his eyes. “Knew you’d come.” 

“Of course we came.” 

“I told you --” he pauses to cough here, a deep and wracking sound that leaves Gaby biting her lip in concern, “-- told you stakeouts would be the death of me.” 

“Hush,” Gaby says. “Don’t talk like that. Only I’m allowed to kill you.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Solo says. “Forgot.” 

“Well don’t,” Gaby says. O’Reilly waves to get her attention, then gives her a thumbs up. “Okay Napoleon, they’re going to move the concrete now. You’re going to be fine, okay? Illya’s out already, and you’re both going to be okay.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Napoleon says. He opens his eyes, finally, and looks straight at her, more vulnerable and open than she’s ever seen him. Perhaps this is the first time she’s seen the real Napoleon Solo, the version without the carefully constructed walls that keeps anyone from getting too close. It’s a sobering thought. 

“Stay with me,” she whispers. He doesn’t break eye contact when they start to lift the slab, though his jaw tightens and he lets out the slightest of whimpers, and he doesn’t break eye contact when O’Reilly clamps onto his leg as blood spurts. It’s not until someone says something about his heart rate dropping that his eyes roll back and Gaby lets out a sob.

“Let’s move!” O’Reilly barks, still holding Solo’s leg -- her fingers might actually be inside his thigh, which is enough to make Gaby feel nauseous -- and then they’re running to the helicopter and loading him up, taking off before Gaby’s able to protest that she wants to ride with her partners, dammit. 

“Come on,” Waverly says, drawing up next to her where she’s watching the copter grow smaller. “It’s an hour drive, so we’d better get started.” 

Gaby watches until she can no longer see them, then turns. “I’ll make it in half that,” she says, holding her hand out for the keys. Waverly hesitates for only a second before setting them in her palm. 

“Let’s go,” Gaby says. She slides into the driver’s seat and cracks her neck and then each of her knuckles as Waverly gets in next to her. 

“Agent Teller, please do try to get us there in one piece.” 

“Of course, sir,” she says, revving the engine with a fierce grin. “We’ll be fine.” 

xxxx

Eventually, they’re all fine. Illya has to be closely monitored and has terrible headaches due to a fractured skull, but after a while the threat of brain swelling goes away, and while the headaches and impaired vision will be cumbersome for a few months, he’s expected to make a full recovery. Napoleon nearly loses his leg, but he avoids the kidney failure O’Reilly was concerned about, and a top-notch vascular surgeon is able to repair his femoral artery. He’s got pneumonia --and Waverly is really going to have to talk to his top agents about working when sick -- but he’s breathing on his own and the antibiotics seem to be working. 

So really, things could have been much worse. Still, Waverly thinks, looking at his agents sleeping fitfully, things were bad enough. 

“Even you cannot control Mother Nature,” Gaby says, walking into the room with balloons and teddy bears in hand. 

“Pardon?” he says, raising his eyebrows and pushing his glasses up. 

“You look guilty,” Gaby says. “But even you can’t stop an earthquake.” 

“No, of course not,” Waverly says, looking back at them. Illya is sleeping like the dead, finally still after a sedative was given to ward off the nightmares that had been plaguing them. Solo is still much too pale, a result of the blood loss, and his leg is in traction. His breathing is still wheezy and crackly. 

“I’ve grown rather fond of you lot,” he says finally. “Perhaps it’s because I have to keep fighting Oleg and Sanders off, but I feel a bit protective as well. And while I know I couldn’t have prevented this, I do wish I could have gotten to them sooner.” 

Gaby sets the balloons and the bears down, one next to each bed, and settles into the chair between them, close enough that she can touch either one with only a minimal reach. 

“You were quick enough,” she says, smoothing one of Solo’s curls from his face. Waverly always forgets that Napoleon’s hair is naturally in a state of curly chaos, and it only serves to make the agent look more vulnerable now. Gaby looks up at him and smiles. “They’ll be alright. Besides, they could use a vacation, no?” 

“I guess they could at that,” Waverly says. He pulls a second chair up so that he’s sitting against the wall across from Gaby, able to look at both men. “Are you any good at crossword puzzles?” 

“The best,” Gaby says without hesitation. 

“Well then. ‘Grain fungus,’ five letters.” 

They work on it for hours.

**Author's Note:**

> -There really was an earthquake in Portugal in 1969 that killed 11 in Morocco and 2 in Portugal.  
> -I'm pretty doubtful that the knowledge of crush injuries was that extensive in the '60s, but current protocol (according to the internets) is to give a ton of fluids to try to counteract Bad Stuff, so that's what I had O'Reilly do here.  
> -Hope you liked this unbetaed h/c fic, Browncoat!


End file.
